The Strain: Another Season - Episode Eight - Four Nervous Vendors
by Rosie Brook-Meade
Summary: The 8th in the series. The saga of the Occido Lumen continues down the centuries. It passes through the hands of four sellers, each anxious for various reasons. Dutch's origins are explored and there is more fallout from the birthday party. Warnings: child sacrifice, black mass, non con, slash, slavery themes, language including racist and homophobic. Details inside.
1. Chapter 1

The Strain: Another Season  
Episode 8

 **Author's note:** **Happy New Year, fellow Strainiacs.**

 **Well, 2.13 just about takes the cake, the biscuit, the whole entire bakery and the fricking pub next door…**

 **…**

 **I can't wait til the end for my comment…**

 **…**

 **I'm gonna burst…**

 **…**

 **…**

 **Big fat hairy spoiler coming right now…**

 **…**

 **…**

 **For millennia women have been told that, no matter how good and kind and brave, how intelligent, how useful to society – even how beautiful they are, they are not as important as their brothers or husbands. That, without a partner, they are worth less or sometimes worthless.**

 **I found it painful to be told the same thing by my second favourite TV show.**

 **Women have not fared well throughout season two have they? Two out of five were killed, one was nearly raped and one has been a hideous undead monster for most of it. Only by behaving almost masculine has Justine survived intact, I suspect. Not including Aanya Gupta whose sole entire purpose was to be a love interest and distraction for Gus - keep him out of the plot's way until Quinlan sought him out.**

 **Had Nora had a potential mate in Fet, as in the books, she would not have been expendable.**

 **Tell me I'm wrong.**

 **PLEASE tell me I'm wrong.**

Four Nervous Vendors  
Chapter One

* * *

Paris 1671

The voluptuous young beauty fluffs her dark blonde curls and wriggles out of the loose robe that was her sole concession to modesty on the carriage ride over here. Françoise-Athénaïs de Rochechouart de Mortemart, the marquise de Montespan, stands for a moment enjoying her nakedness before gracefully climbing onto the stone altar and stretching out luxuriously.

Her audience are unimpressed. The celebrant of this perverted Mass, the Abbé Étienne Guibourg runs his cold black eyes slowly over her body but is unmoved. His assistant, Catherine Monvoisin, is about Francoise's age but very plain in comparison. Her lip quirks involuntarily but she stops short of a sneer as she places a black candle between the human altar's thighs and another in her mouth. She drops some melted wax onto the naked girl's left breast making her flinch and gasp, then uses it to fix a third candle approximately over her heart.

'You have the sacrifice?' The Abbé's voice comes from the depths of a hood.

Monvoisin goes to a basket in the corner and lifts out a bundle of blankets. It begins to stir and mewl so she coos and jiggles as she returns to the Abbé's side.

The Abbé turns slowly, making an oddly menacing purring noise, his unnaturally white skin now clearly visible in the candlelight. He regards the infant with such fierce longing that even his accomplices feel uncomfortable. Eventually he turns back to the young woman on the altar. 'And you, Madame de Montespan,' he says accusingly. 'You who call on the Master's divine power to secure the King's...heart. You retrieved the book of service from the royal vault?'

She nods slightly, careful not to dislodge the lit candle in her mouth and points to her robe on the floor. He walks over and crouches beside the heap of fur. He twitches it aside and recoils as the silver-clad _Occido Lumen_ is revealed.

'Bring it to me,' he commands Monvoisin. She obeys with a shrug, making light of her twin burdens of baby and book.

Guibourg indicates for her to place the Lumen on the lectern and open it for him.

As she does so, the doors reverberate to a blow from a battering ram and burst open. Dozens of armed militiamen charge into the building and arrest Catherine Monvoisin. Madame de Montespan escapes and runs out naked into the night but the Abbé won't leave without his prize. He casts around for something to pick it up with while the guards' leader, Gabriel Nicolas de la Reynie approaches the lectern.

De la Reynie is captivated by the sight of the _Lumen_. He mechanically sheathes his weapon and traces the illumination on the open page with a finger - as if caressing a well-loved face. The jewel-coloured picture illustrates a mature _strigoi_ feeding with its stinger at full extent. Unsurprisingly, the image seems to puzzle him and he lifts the book for a closer examination. The movement saves his life because at that very moment, Guibourg, now holding Madame de Montespan's fur robe for protection from silver, lunges at him with his stinger – the picture come to life. Instinctively, the horrified de la Reynie uses the _Lumen_ first as a shield then as a weapon, flailing at the screaming _strigoi's_ stinger and backing out into the night. The guards move in to cover their leader's retreat and overwhelm the vampire priest, forcing him up into the rafters.

Guibourg takes a run up and launches himself out of a stained glass window to continue the pursuit but it is all in vain. De la Reynie has made it across the river and with Catherine Monvoisin in custody there is no human to help him cross the water. He stands and howls at the night, tendrils of smoke coming from the tip of his assaulted stinger.

Two impossibly blue eyes in the shadow of a high chimneystack track Monsieur de la Reynie's escape.

* * *

Berlin 1990  
Eichhorst's new feeding room in west of the city

Cornelius (Corey) Henke lies on a plastic-coated mattress in the newly-fitted feeding dungeon. The room has a more familiar look with sound-proofing panels fitted around the walls but it is still rectangular – whatever benefits the sixteen-sided construction conveys have yet to be discovered.

Corey is wearing only his underwear and the silver locket his great-grandmother gave him. His hands and feet are loosely bound. He floats in and out of consciousness.

Two sets of footsteps tread steadily down the corridor outside. No one is being dragged or forced and no one is fighting back. The door is pushed open and a man's voice says conversationally, 'In here.'

His fiancée, Sandra Edwards, stalks in haughtily in front of someone who is the very image of the war criminal Thomas Eichhorst – from half a century ago. She is wearing a pink silk dress and looks well-treated apart from some healed wounds on her neck and a thick collar. Corey's vision is blurry and his eyes keep shutting themselves despite his best efforts. When the girl catches sight of him, she freezes in horror. She moves to go to him but before she takes a step, Eichhorst clicks a chain onto the collar and relentlessly pulls her across his chest.

She screams and begs for mercy and, at least now, she is fighting to get away.

'No! Please don't! Let me go! Let me _go_! PLEASE Eichhorst! _NO! PLEASE!_ '

The "man" opens his jaw wide and extends some kind of tentacle to suction the blood from the girl's neck. She is drained to unconsciousness and Corey faints.

* * *

Île Seguin, Paris January 1709

Gabriel Nicolas de la Reynie is a very elderly man now - bald, hunched and bespectacled. The first Lieutenant General of the Paris police, now retired, sits at his desk in an impressive library. The many fine old manuscripts and beautifully bound books could grace a museum or even a palace but they have all been neglected and allowed to gather fly dirt and dusty cobwebs. All, that is, except the one currently on the writing slope.

If the _Occido Lumen_ really were a living creature, you could almost describe it as looking smug – like the single cushion-curled cat in a household of furniture-banned dogs.

De la Reynie pores over the _Lumen's_ text, occasionally consulting other sources and very, _very_ occasionally scratching a word in a lockable journal. Some instinct makes him look up and turn around.

A hooded figure stands in the doorway. He starts and recoils away from it, using his body to shield and protect the silver book.

' _You…!_ ' he whispers in horror. 'I know what you are.'

* * *

Berlin 1990

Sandra recovers to find herself and Corey collared and chained in the new dungeon. He's attached to the winch but she is allowed more leeway. She checks herself and her lover for life and humanity and is relieved to find both. While Corey wears so little, she is still in the pink dress and her most recent scar has been neatly dressed. Her intravenous cannula, which was never removed but had its patency carefully maintained by regular flushing with anticoagulant _strigoi_ "saliva", is attached to a quarter-full bag of her blood type. The valve is wide open ensuring maximum flow rate. Eichhorst must really have almost emptied her this time.

Corey has no stinger marks – not even a tiny one as per the Regis 753 victims. He has bruises and wounds on his throat, head and chest as if he's fought back against a kidnapping.

There are plenty of water bottles around and she tears a bit of silk off the bottom of her dress and yenderly cleans his wounds, which brings him round.

'I'd ask if you were OK,' she says. 'But I always hate people saying that to me when it's so redundant.'

Corey moans and vomits.

'The good news is that we're both alive and human…' she says.

He tries to sit up but she gently pushes him back. 'No, no. Stay down,' she says.

She sighs and looks around.

'…The bad news is self evident.'

The really bad news in the shape of Eichhorst comes in and nods his satisfaction at seeing them both conscious and the blood bag nearly empty. He seems to accept Sandra's look of utter loathing as tribute.

She sits silently watching for his next move. Corey starts to rise, presumably to attack Eichhorst but, with wary eyes still on their captor, she gently pushes him back down.

Eichhorst advances to her end of the mattress and crouches down in front of her.

'Well done, Eichhorst,' she hisses in his face. 'You won. You finally got your struggle – your adrenalised drink. Was it all you hoped it would be? You piece of shit.'

He nods at the silver locket and chain around Corey's neck. 'Take it off,' he commands.

Sandra slowly shakes her head once.

'Let him go,' she demands as if she's learnt nothing from her period of captivity. 'You've used him to torment me and it worked but you don't need him any more. Please. Set him free.'

Eichhorst says nothing. He pierces the tip of his middle finger with his thumbnail and gives her some white blood. She grudgingly opens her mouth and, radiating hatred through the held stare, she accepts it. Eichhorst stands, steps towards Corey and crouches again. Using one hand on the young man's chest to keep him pushed down, the vampire offers him the same white blood. Corey clamps his jaw tightly shut so Eichhorst pushes his head back via a firm grip on the young man's chin and drops it up his bloody nose.

He waits a moment or two, holding Corey helpless in the same position, then stands and moves to the winch handle and starts to reel him in. Sandra leaps to her feet, suddenly strong from the white and rushes to intervene. Eichhorst just pushes her back into the wall with one hand and continues winding until Corey's head is tight to the block. He extends his stinger to its maximum length and drinks briefly from the right femoral artery.

He lets go of Sandra briefly, to seal the wound with white, holding Corey's flailing leg while does so. Then he returns to the horror-struck girl and adjusts his suit jacket.

'The Dutch are always a bit of a mongrel race,' he tells her. 'There's German in there and even a tiny bit of Hebrew but it's acceptable since he appears to be your choice.'

The vampire looks her up and down while Corey yells, 'He's lying, Sandra. I'm not German. I'm Dutch Jewish.

Then Eichhorst rips off her dress in one movement saying, 'Now. BREED!'

* * *

 **Author's note: Book 2 and 3 Spoilers along with everything.**

 **...**

 **...**

 **While I still feel wounded and betrayed by Nora's unnecessary demise, the finale wasn't all bad.**

 **In fact, the auction was fabulous - I was hoping for much and it did not disappoint.**

 **And the goodbye scene – the breaking of the Fellowship as it were – made me cry. I can't help myself - I'm completely besotted with Setrakian. He's definitely getting Nora now.**

 **Before I finish my rants and raves for another year, I must give Nora a little tribute.** **I realised after reading book 3 Night Eternal that she can't stay with Eph and she's grown on me so much that I wouldn't wish that on her anyway.**

 **I didn't like her to start with cos I could tell that Freddie fancied Mia Maestro. Plus she was soppy and I couldn't be doing with soppiness from a doctor in a mass extinction scenario. And when I read the books I thought she'd been mis-cast. Literary Nora has much more snap and spark – more spine.**

 **But then there was that extraordinary bit of work Ms Maestro did when Nora had to decapitate her mum. And I've come to admire the way she brings softness to strength. Not wanting to make her sound like Andrex or anything… It's unusual for a female character to be strong yet remain gentle and feminine. I liked that. So anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Nora good. But not for Fet. It seems obvious to me that he and Dutch are meant to be together. But even if they didn't go down my daft Nora/Setrakian route, she could have had another partner. Or, here's a novel idea…**

 **Hold on it's earth-shattering…**

 **A female character who is OK being single. And interesting and worthwhile in her own right.**

 **Too much for the third millennium? Yeah, probably.**

 **Sigh...**


	2. Chapter 2

The Strain: Another Season  
Episode 8

 **Author's Note: I have been thinking a great deal about Quinlan and what to do with him (and Vaun) and have come to a decision. Therefore I'm going back to alter any mention of Quinlan in earlier chapters to Vaun. I hope it doesn't mess up the order of everyone's fics.**

 **Please read and review.**

 **Please.**

Four Nervous Vendors  
Chapter Two

* * *

Île Seguin, Paris 1709  
Gabriel Nicolas de la Reynie's Library

A hooded figure stands in the doorway watching de la Reynie poring over the _Occido Lumen_. When the old man becomes aware of the other's presence, he starts and recoils, using his body to shield and protect the silver book.

' _You…!_ ' he whispers in horror. 'I know what you are.'

He glances back at the open page for confirmation. 'You are _the Born_!'

The apparition says nothing.

The old man draws something shiny from inside his jacket and waves it inexpertly at the figure.

A pale (but not _strigoi-_ white) hand flicks out from the robes and grasps the silver dagger by its blade. Wresting it easily from the wrinkled hand, the figure steps forward and offers it back to de la Reynie - handle first. The pale flesh is unmarked and unharmed by the touch of the silver blade.

'I have not come to hurt you,' says a pleasant voice. 'Or the _Silver Codex_.'

Two elegant hands remove the hood revealing an unmistakably feminine face. Ever so pale, yet still pink enough to pass as human but with absolutely no hair. The same unearthly blue eyes that watched de la Reynie's flight from the vampire-priest's unholy ritual now regard him silently.

'My name is Hostia,' she says eventually.

The old man looks puzzled. 'As in "victim"?' he asks. 'Or "sacrifice"?'

Hostia grunts and doesn't answer the question, saying only: 'I am not "Born" as you understand it.'

'How did you cross the river?' he asks.

'Water presents no impediment to me,' she says simply.

He looks at her again. Now he's over the initial shock of the unashamed baldness, her face strikes him as really quite pretty. Beautiful, actually. If only she would wear a wig like the fashionable ladies…

She sighs at his scrutiny and continues. 'You chose your retirement home wisely, monsieur,' she concedes. 'However, the river is no longer sufficient security for the _Codex_. The enemy is making alliances with humans. You must take it overseas – secretly. Head west, across the Atlantic.'

'To America?' quavers de la Reynie. 'But the journey would kill me. I'm a very old man.'

'I can give you something to sustain you,' she reassures him. 'But you must not take the Book to the mainland. You must go to the West Indies. The climate will agree with you.'

'It has been a very long, cold winter...' mutters de la Reynie to himself.

'The Huguenots are fleeing France,' says Hostia. 'Go as one of them. But not to a French colony. Live as a stranger among the English in Jamaica. Your foreignness will be obscurity and thus safety for you and your charge.'

'Deny my faith?' he protests, outraged.

'Only the name of it, monsieur,' she assures him. 'Your God will know the truth in your soul.'

'But my home? My possessions? My library?'

'Must be burnt, monsieur,' she says into his dissent. 'I will fake your death. And that of the _Codex_. There is no other option.'

'My notes on the _Lumen_ …' frets the old man finally.

'They will survive,' she soothes him. 'But they must be kept separate from the _Codex_ itself. I will see to it.'

* * *

Berlin 1990  
Eichhorst's feeding room the next morning

The room is new and the door swings open soundlessly to admit Eichhorst bearing a tray of food. He smiles to see the two lovers asleep in each other's arms. They have washed the vomitus down the drain and pushed the mattress up against the block to allow the boy more ease of movement against the chain.

Eichhorst slightly raises his head as if scenting and the smile fades but doesn't disappear completely. He advances to the girl's side of the bed and crouches down, placing the tray on the floor. The sound of Italian leather on concrete wakes them both.

'I anticipated some token resistance,' he tells her, offering her some white blood from his finger.

'We're not going to perform for your satisfaction, you nauseating pervert,' snarls Sandra, disentangling herself and pushing the hand away. Corey leaps up and throws himself at Eichhorst but he is dodged and easily batted away behind the vampire and lands heavily against the wall.

Sandra yells, 'No!' and moves to go to the young man. Eichhorst steps in her way and recaptures her attention.

'You think I watch somehow?' he says.

'Or listen,' she accuses, taking a step forward and trying to pass him again.

'I have better things to do than eavesdrop on your mammalian fumblings,' he says.

He pauses and watches her, enjoying her embarrassment and waiting to see if she will reveal anything in front of Corey.

'You mean you're not going to…?' she whispers, fully focussed on Eichhorst once again.

He smiles broadly. 'Oh no,' he says with a chuckle. 'Be assured, you have complete privacy.'

He turns to Corey who is struggling to his feet. 'But I shall know when you have coupled and when you conceive.'

He then dismissively turns his back on the young man and exclusively addresses a disgusted Sandra.

'You, as the brood mare, are the important one here. If you don't persuade him to service you...' he jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Corey, who is readying himself for another assault. '…then I will find another stallion. Somebody less to your fancy,' he smiles reasonably and shrugs. 'Maybe even violent.' And at the last minute Eichhorst steps out of the way of Corey's flying leap so that the attacker lands on top of Sandra, bearing her to the mattress beneath him.

'That's the spirit,' nods Eichhorst as he leaves.

* * *

Jamaica 1710

Gabriel Nicholas de la Reynie is teaching his slaves to read English. In the library of his plantation house, a huge Bible is perched on a lectern in the beautiful Caribbean sunlight. Behind it, in a darker, more intimate corner is de la Reynie's desk with the _Occido Lumen_ open on the writing slope.

De la Reynie himself is still very elderly but he definitely looks as if the balmy weather is agreeing with him.

He calls each slave in turn to the lectern to read a few lines.

Finally, it is the turn of a neat young woman with intelligent eyes and an aura of dignified calm. He calls her Nanny.

She is slow at first but quickly picks up pace, racing through the story of Sodom and Gomorrah as if keen to find out how it ends.

'Now, now, my dear,' says de la Reynie, a bit flustered. 'Don't tear the paper.'

She drops the pages with a frustrated sound and an older woman comes to hustle her away. 'Come along, Nanny,' she whispers. 'Don't be a burden to our good master. There's not one other on this island cares enough to teach us so. Sorry sir, she's newly bought. She means no harm, I'm sure.'

A glint of silver from the depths of the library catches the girl's eye and she twists out of the older woman's grasp to examine the _Occido Lumen_.

'And what is _this_ book, Master,' she whispers in awe, reaching out a hand.

De la Reynie rushes to prevent her touching the _Lumen_ but she has seen the pages and is as bewitched as every other reader and he has to bodily restrain her.

'That book is not in English,' he says.

'Is it a holy book like the Bible?' she asks struggling to reach past him.

'In a way,' he concedes as the older woman comes to help him. 'But it is not for you to worry your young head about…'

'It is a book of POWER!' exclaims Nanny and, as de la Reynie hands her over to the older slave, she escapes them both and touches a picture of a winged humanoid creature – not unlike an angel.

Suddenly she is thrown to the floor and convulses, her eyes rolled back in her head so only the whites are showing. She screams and froths at the mouth, resisting all attempts to subdue and control her. Then she starts yelling out in an unintelligible language – again very like the speech of the villagers that Paolo visited when he initially retrieved the tablets of the _Occido Lumen_.

De la Reynie and his slaves watch in horrified bewilderment.

* * *

Berlin 1990  
The feeding room

Corey tries to lift himself off Sandra but she pulls him back down and kisses him.

'Please, Corey,' she begs. 'You heard him. He doesn't threaten idly. Please, for my sake.'

She kisses him again, rolls on top and sits astride him to take off her bra. Then she kisses him again and tries to pull his underpants off. He sits up and stops her, pinning both her hands behind her back.

'Wait, Sandra,' he says and has to pause while he fights off another kiss. 'I can't just turn it on like that. We're chained like animals in a cage…' he finishes with a shrug.

'Yeah,' she purrs. 'Hot isn't it?' And she launches herself at him again.

He manages to fight her off again and calm her down enough to reason with her.

She flicks the hair out her eyes and catches her breath. 'Look, I may have a plan for getting us out of here,' she says. 'But we'll need to get pregnant first.' She raises her eyebrows meaningfully. 'It would probably help if you accepted some of his blood next time he offers it. It has healing properties and it might boost our fertility too.'

Corey definitely doesn't like that idea but he stops to think for a bit. Then he glances around the room. 'I'm sorry, Sandra,' he says. 'But I need a bit more romance than this.' He gestures at their surroundings.

'OK,' she concedes. 'Let's have a story, a scenario.' She thinks for a moment. 'OK. How about this – we've been married for twenty five years, the youngest kid has left for University...'

Corey is grinning and lets go of her hands. 'How many do we have?'

'Four,' she says. 'Three boys and a girl. She's the youngest 'cos we kept trying. I really wanted a daughter.'

'I'd like a daughter too,' he says softly.

Sandra smiles adoringly at him for a long moment. 'Well, maybe we will. And when we get out of here we'll raise her on an island somewhere far away from bloody Berlin. Maybe this story starts today, Corey.' She kisses him again and this time he doesn't resist but pulls her down towards him.

She breaks for air and then grins wickedly. 'I haven't finished the story yet,' she teases.

'No?' he says, equally taunting. He rolls her onto her back, pulls her hands above her head and winds her chain around them. 'Please continue,' he says before dropping a slow trail of kisses from shoulder to breast and lazily drawing the tip of his tongue around her nipple.

She screams in delight and gabbles quickly. 'WewereboredsoyoubuiltalovedungeonbutIwastooimpatienttoletyoufinishit.'

He stops and looks at her. 'Yes,' he says, cocking his head in mock thoughtfulness. 'You probably would be, wouldn't you? Hey! Ow! No biting! I'm an old man, remember? I'm at least fifty three, Mrs Henke. You look great for your age, by the w…'

* * *

Jamaica 1714

Nanny, Gabriel Nicholas de la Reynie's slave girl, runs through the nighttime jungle. She often stumbles, partly because her flight is lit only by the moon but mostly because she is carrying a heavy sack.

Finally, she arrives at some tall wooden gates. Armed sentries address her from guard towers.

'HALT!' yells one man. 'Who wishes to enter the Maroon stronghold?'

The girl kneels on the ground and pulls the _Occido Lumen_ out of the sack. She holds it above her head.

'My name is Nanny,' she calls out. 'My master was Mister Delarainy but he is dead this day. I am an Obeah woman and skilled in healing and I bring _power_ with me.' She waggles the book for emphasis. 'Let me speak with your leader.'

* * *

 **Author's note:**

 **Please, _please_ review one of my episodes. I am not too proud to beg or indeed bribe.**

 **I want to fulfil my promise to complete this story but I've posted nearly 80,000 words now without a single review and very few faves/follows and to continue without your affirmation would be sheer vanity.**

 **Visitors to the fandom must wonder why I've persisted in doggedly posting chapter after chapter with such scant support. The thing is - I know that you're reading it - hundreds of people from dozens of countries visiting and re-visiting thousands of times so I assume you have enjoyed bits of it.**

 **I acknowledge I had that little meltdown at the end of August when the FanFiction website visit counters went down at the exact same time as the second season premiered in the UK. I was so new to the site that I didn't realise these sorts of technical hiccups could happen and I thought people had stopped reading it. If you read that author's note, you probably thought you were the only one interested in the story. I don't know if that's a lot of traffic for a debutante's M-rated fic in this fandom or not but it's been enough to encourage me. Until now.**

 **PM me if you daren't post a review. PM me even if you have also reviewed, I would genuinely love to hear from you and I'm quite nice really (provided you're not flashing flickering lights in my eyes!)**


	3. Chapter 3

The Strain: Another Season  
Episode 8

 **Author's note: I've messed with history here, in order to bring the altercation between an eighteen-year-old William (Kitty) Courtenay and a twenty-four-year-old William Thomas Beckford into the same timeframe as the 1822 sale of Fonthill Abbey.**

 **Warning: Language including offensively racist and homophobic. Male OC/OC rape with whipping (actually historical characters rather than original) as discipline within a gay relationship. All treated with my usual circumspection though!**

Four Nervous Vendors  
Chapter Three

* * *

Jamaica 1734  
House of Assembly, Spanish Town

People have been fleeing years of fear, oppression, rape and violence. The refugees have escaped and banded together in a camp in the jungle.

Now, a group of elderly, white British men gather around a table to decide their future.

A small man with an ear trumpet scratches his wig. 'Governor Hunter,' he bellows at the leader. 'Too many slaves have been stolen and those that loyally resist the forced liberation have been killed.'

'Gentlemen,' Hunter responds. 'I don't deny the need to tackle the Maroon problem. What I fail to see is an effective solution. Their stronghold is impregnable. We've sent too many well-armed soldiers to their deaths. To attempt another full-scale assault would be absolute lunacy.'

A spherical red-faced man who might be expected to roar and bluster speaks querulously. 'They must have powerful leadership,' he says. The company grunts in assent so he continues. 'Some say it is Queen Nanny – that she is a mighty sorceress.'

'Don't be ridiculous, Aynscough,' scoffs Hunter. 'Captain Sambo killed her.'

The superstitious Aynscough isn't put off for long. 'They say she has risen from the dead and leads her people with supernatural influence and a general's instinct for defensive tactics.'

The laughing and scorn is surging but he raises his reedy voice above it. 'Or that she possesses a magical totem.'

He is universally derided once again. Well, almost universally. One man has been watching in silence until now.

'If the slave known as Nanny is still in control of the Maroons then Sambo simply killed the wrong woman.' He inveighs reasonably. 'It matters not. I have a secret weapon that will turn the course in our favour.

'What are you talking about Beckford?' snaps the governor.

'Not a "magical totem",' Peter Beckford junior sneers to general approval. 'But a single mercenary skilled in jungle warfare and stealth,' he pauses for effect. 'One man might utilise what may hundreds might not – the advantage of surprise.'

He nods at a servant by the door. 'Burke. Show Captain Stoddart in, would you.'

A handsome if slightly scarred young man enters the room and bows to each of the assembly in turn.

* * *

The following night

Stoddart crawls slowly through the thick foliage of the Jamaican interior and approaches the Maroon fortress from behind and above. He is so quiet and sneaky that he is able to slit throat after throat and "bravely" slaughters the Maroon warriors in their sleep. Covered in blood he finally enters a hut in the centre of the camp and dispatches the inhabitants as silently and ruthlessly as the others. The sleeping woman is the same Nanny from Nicolas de la Reynie's English lesson. She is asleep on the _Occido Lumen_. He retrieves the book and returns to Spanish Town where he presents the _Lumen_ to Beckford in exchange for his fee.

* * *

Berlin January 1990  
Eichhorst's feeding room

Both captives have been allowed the full extent of their leashes now but Corey is still attached to the winch, albeit loosely. Once again they lie in each other's arms.

The door opens and Eichhorst strides in. He scents as before. 'Excellent,' he smiles, as Corey and Sandra get to their feet. 'Well done. Another successful night.'

Corey pulls his underwear back on but Sandra is unashamed and the vampire doesn't seem to notice anyway.

Eichhorst pauses, scents again and marches straight to Corey. He lifts the young man into the air by his throat and holds him at arm's length while he sniffs closely around the girl again. He laughs gleefully and absently releases the boy to examine Sandra more thoroughly.

'Yes! Yes!' he cries jubilantly. 'So soon? How wonderful!' He unlocks her and offers his hand gallantly. 'Come with me. You will lack nothing during this pregnancy – you and your precious, _delicious_ cargo.'

He's oblivious to the young man in his overwhelming delight and Corey removes his locket, readying it as a garrotte. Eichhorst reaches out to touch the girl's belly reverentially, almost like a worshipper at a shrine. Sandra watches, horrified. He hesitates at the last moment and looks at her. ' _I_ hope it is a son,' he says meaningfully.

She glares at him and starts, 'But you said…'

He shrugs and smiles the velociraptor smile. 'You should have let me get out of earshot before throwing yourself at him.'

While Eichhorst is distracted, Corey takes the opportunity to leap onto his back and try to throttle him with the locket's silver chain. The vampire thrashes about until Corey's grip is loosened. The locket is thrown towards Sandra who catches it reflexively to stop it hitting her face. Corey is still on Eichhorst's back but now he's lost the silver advantage.

'Run, Sandra,' he yells.

She hesitates but he insists. 'For God's sake, don't let our baby be raised like this. _Please_. GO!'

That sends her off down the corridor like a jackrabbit.

Eichhorst, reversing, runs his assailant back against the wall but Corey braces his feet against it and starts to somersault out. Eichhorst is quicker and stronger even than a healthy young Mossad-trained agent and performs the same manoeuvre while Corey is in mid-air. He flips him off onto the stone block and there's a loud, wet crack and screaming as Corey's femur fractures.

Eichhorst runs out after Sandra but his Master's voice sounds in his head bringing him to a halt.

 _No. Let her go. I have not interfered in your pleasure before now but you have gone too far._

Eichhorst looks longingly down the corridor and makes to go after her. It's not so much a movement as the muscle twitch of a greyhound that sees something furry running away.

The Master's voice is insistent. _LET. HER. GO._

 _Kill the boy. DO NOT TURN HIM._

 _Burn the building and return to me. I am sending you to Frankfurt to meet the human whose largesse is funding your hedonistic experiments. Do not think I disapprove. We will review your results and refine the system. It will need upscaling. And then I want you to investigate in Amsterdam. I have been unable to connect with Werner._

* * *

Unpursued, Sandra eventually finds her way out and flees across the cold, wet street. A naked girl running blindly in downtown Berlin during the morning rush hour is likely to get attention of all kinds but she retains enough sense to head for the nearest building full of women. There's a beauty salon opposite her prison. She flings open the glass door, releasing the sound of Phil Collins crooning on the radio.

 _Oh, think twice, it's another day for you and me in paradise._

To the horror of clients and stylists alike, she falls to the floor whimpering in English, 'I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant.'

* * *

Bengal, India 1780  
East India Company Hospital

A young man lies in a hospital bed, thrashing and raving. He is covered in sweat.

Two doctors stand at the foot of the bed discussing his case dispassionately.

'Lieutenant John Farquhar, sir - wounded in action,' The younger man explains. 'A penetrative injury to the upper thigh, probably involving the periosteum. It has become corrupted.'

'Is there any hope for the poor fellow?' asks the senior medic.

'Not much, sir. All we can do is keep it clean, feed him opium and pray Death comes swiftly.'

'Is he the quadroon?'

'Yes, sir,' replies the junior doctor as if this, rather than the patient's injury, is the worse affliction. 'The poor creature's grandmother was a Wazir from the north west frontier.'

'The lawless border with Afghanistan?'

'Yes sir,' says the younger man as both doctors move away. 'Rumour has it she was a descendant of the Scythian prophetesses of Persia.'

Farquhar opens unseeing eyes wide and screams. His eyes are an unearthly bright green. No one comes to soothe him.

His delirious nightmares feature a cursed silver book, a white noseless demon with a snake for a tongue and a dreadful plague.

* * *

Fet's place, Red Hook, Brooklyn – the present

'Oh, thank God,' cries Dutch, sagging with relief.

Fet struggles off the treatment table and up the stairs to comfort her.

Sandra looks puzzled. 'What did you think had happened?'

'I thought Eichhorst was my father.'

'WHAT?!' laughs Sandra in disbelief.

'Well, when I saw you together tonight…and you're so desperate to keep him alive and to "make him pay" … and you admitted today that you're obsessed with him…and you called your captivity "our time together in Berlin"…and then my DNA is the same as his…' Dutch finishes lamely.

'Did no one explain the facts of vampire life to my daughter?' Sandra looks around accusingly and her gaze rests on Setrakian. 'You never used to hoard your knowledge like this, Professor.'

Eph has been silent, thinking. Now he speaks up pointedly. 'Sooo. This magically healing "white" you were given was vampire blood?'

Gus draws his sword, which prompts Angel to do likewise and they advance on Sandra warily.

'Yes but I've never had the worms,' she says, backing away with hands raised defensively. 'So there's no need to get all stabby with the silver.'

She looks at Setrakian for support but remarkably, she refrains from telling the others about his own, involuntary, "white" consumption.

'Calm down, everyone,' he says. 'We know Miss Edwards is human and the doctors can corroborate the fact that _strigoi_ are incapable of procreation except by transmission of the worms.'

Dutch, Fet, Zack and the Mexicans look to the doctors for confirmation.

'Their genitals fall off within the first few days of infection,' nods Nora.

'I don't get it,' Angel whispers too loudly to Gus. 'Did she fuck the fucking vampire or what?'

'ZACK! Bed. NOW!' Eph orders his son as the first F-bomb detonates.

'Don't think so, man,' says Gus. 'They don't got no cock!'

'What about Señor Vaun?' asks Angel, confused. 'He act like he own everyone. Like he got a python in his pants.'

'So does the German,' Gus shrugs. 'But I love that he's just has a whole buncha GI Joe down there.' The idea makes him laugh out loud again.

Nora eyes are huge with empathy and welling up. 'How does anyone recover from something like that?'

'With help,' Sandra smiles grimly.

Eph says, 'I can't sleep yet. I'm going to restart the research.' He glances a question at Nora but she shakes her head. Eph shrugs and heads for the lab.

'What happened next, Mum?' asks Dutch.

* * *

Fonthill Abbey, Great Britain, Home of William Thomas Beckford - August 1822  
The Gallery

About a dozen fashionable people are admiring Beckford's paintings and _objets d'art._ They peel off in couples and threes to better examine and appreciate items or collections of particular interest to them. Only two men accompany Beckford into the library where the _Occido Lumen_ sits behind glass.

The older man, Alexander Hamilton, 10th Duke of Hamilton and 7th Duke of Brandon is in his fifties but still a very handsome man with a full head of silver hair.

The younger, William "Kitty" Courtenay, the future 9th Earl of Devon is still a teenager. He is exquisite, the very ideal of male beauty - at least of his time. He would be considered much too fey for today's tastes.

The three approach the _Lumen_. The host had been languid but as he gestures at the book he is bursting with boyish pride. 'Well, now, Hamilton,' he says familiarly. 'This is the fabled _Occido Lumen_. What do you think of that?'

Courtenay is sullen, almost envious of the attention Beckford is bestowing on the book.

'It certainly is the most superb silverwork I've ever seen. The work of a master craftsman,' says Hamilton.

This isn't praise enough for Beckford. 'Yes, yes,' he says. 'But look inside…'

The boy tuts loudly and rolls his eyes.

The host chides him indulgently. 'Oh come now, Kitty.'

He apologises to the duke. 'Poor Courtenay doesn't understand.'

Beckford produces a key from around his neck and unlocks the cabinet. He picks the book up lovingly and shudders with pleasure. Hamilton glances at him, looking a little uncomfortable. "Kitty" sighs and melts away, exiting unnoticed through a door concealed in the panelling.

Hamilton watches as the _Lumen_ is settled tenderly on a bookstand. Beckford's breathing quickens as he nudges the leaves apart to reveal the most vibrant coral-reef colours and strange diagrams.

Hamilton stares open-mouthed and glittery-eyed before uttering a great heaving, 'Ohhh!'

Beckford starts as if he had forgotten he had company, looks jealously across at Hamilton and snaps the book shut – almost severing the other's questing finger.

Hamilton looks furious but represses the rage and recovers his suave nonchalance just as the other guests join them.

'I say, Beckford,' brays one gentleman. 'What a terrible bore about your Jamaican plantations.'

'Yes,' replies Beckford, locking the _Occido Lumen_ away and replacing the key beneath his shirt. 'Damned Abolitionists. That's why I'm selling this place and most of its treasures next month.'

'Is that glorious Raphael going to be consigned?' he asks.

'Yes,' replies Beckford. 'And all the Meissen too.'

'What about the silver book?' asks Hamilton covetously. 'Is that for sale?'

'Never,' snaps Beckford, turning on his heel and leaving his guests in a haze of "Upon my soul"s and "Well I never"s.

He canters up the main staircase and along a corridor before barging into Courtenay's apartment, attitude high. The boy has taken his jacket and boots off and is reclining on his bed perusing a letter. He tries to hide it from his host but after a brief wrestle the older man is in possession.

He scans it quickly and becomes incensed.

'Who is this?' he flicks the paper with a finger. 'Who "longs for the touch of your lily-white hands"?' he spits out, flinging it down in disgust. 'I own you Kitty,' he growls. 'Every inch of your "soft, yielding flesh".'

He casts about the room and his gaze falls on Courtenay's riding boots with a horsewhip sticking out of the top of one.

* * *

Downstairs in the drawing room, the houseguests, with the exception of Hamilton are milling about - reading, talking or just lounging prettily on a _chaise longue_ \- when the air is torn by bloodcurdling screaming accompanied by the rhythmic crack of a riding crop.

The gentlemen instruct the ladies to remain where they are and rush into the hall where Hamilton joins them from the library. He leads the charge upstairs to Courtenay's quarters where the boy is found bent over the desk wearing only his shirt.

Their host is standing close behind him, one hand gripping the boy's collar. He is thrusting into him and lashing him alternately with the switch and the most regrettable language any of the gentlemen has ever heard.

'What in God's name…?' cries Hamilton, pulling Beckford away and trying not to look down.

The donkey-voiced man disarms him and the distraught boy flees into his dressing room still screaming and crying. The door bangs and the bolt is shot.

* * *

William Thomas Beckford's bedchamber, September 1822

Beckford and Courtenay are apparently reconciled for Kitty lies in the other's sleeping arms, his head resting on his lover's chest. The moonlight seeping in through the curtains reveals the boy to be awake. His eyes are open as he puts his arms around Beckford's neck making him stir in his sleep. He waits breathlessly until the man is motionless again and, ever so carefully, undoes the chain around Beckford's neck.

With his prize secured, he sneaks out of bed and down to the library without even getting dressed. He unlocks the _Occido Lumen_ 's glass-fronted safe and carries his love rival down the gallery to an insignificant-looking French cabinet with an auctioneer's label marking it as _Lot No. 12_. The _Lumen_ is stowed at the very back behind some scrunched up newspapers and Courtenay pads silently back to his lover's embrace.

* * *

Fonthill Abbey, Great Britain - October 1823

A much older John Farquhar thrashes around on his bed, bright green eyes staring wildly. The new owner of this splendid Abbey is having nightmares.

 _Fire and brimstone fall on Sodom and Gomorrah…the silver book_

 _Emaciated men in stripy uniforms line up before a pit in the snow…the silver book_

 _The siege of Caffa….the silver book_

 _A frantic man stands chest deep in a midden...the silver book_

 _The bandits attack Paolo's camp…the silver book_

 _A strange white horseless wagon with Wilson's bread painted on the side…the silver book_

 _Venice burns…the silver book_

 _The Master's face appears in a crystal ball…the silver book_

 _Screams and whip cracks come from behind a door…the silver book_

 _A pointy-eared demon with glowing eyes in a top hat and black cloak stands in Victorian London's moonlit streets and lashes his long crimson and purple "tongue" towards a girl…the silver book_

 _The raid of an Iroquois tribe…the silver book_

 _Fonthill Abbey collapses…the silver book_

 _ **HELLFIRE!**_

… _the silver book…the silver book…the silver book._

Farquhar jerks awake with an incoherent yell. He's drenched in sweat and his bedclothes are twisted tightly about his legs, his torso hanging half off the bed.

His butler stands beside the bed and coughs diplomatically.

'Good morning, Mr Farquhar,' he says smoothly. 'I trust you were able to sleep this first night in your new property.'

Farquhar clambers back into bed and goggles at him. He glances meaningfully at the mess he's lying in but the butler is impeccably blank as he places the tea tray.

'Thank you, Strood,' says Farquhar. 'It's taken long enough for the lawyers to let me occupy my own bloody home.'

'We have already begun unpacking, sir,' announces Strood. 'And we found this hidden at the back of a cabinet.' He twitches a large napkin aside, revealing the _Occido Lumen._

Farquhar's reaction is extreme. He scrambles out of bed with a horrified yelp and flees onto the landing, making a housemaid scream.

'Sir?' says Strood, pursuing his master with a puzzled look on his face.

'That's the silver book from my nightmares,' points an agitated Farquhar from the other side of the grand staircase. 'We must get rid of it. Immediately!'

'Very good, sir,' says the unflappable Strood. 'I will arrange another sale directly.'

'And include all this other pointless art and pottery. I don't want to look at naked women that I can't touch nor house china too "precious" for me to drink an honest cup of tea out of. Get rid of it all. I only wanted the house but that confounded sodomite insisted I buy everything in order to pre-empt the auction.'


	4. Chapter 4

The Strain: Another Season  
Episode 8

 **Author's note: I took a breather recently from my frantic "must keep posting" mentality of last year to engage with my community, the Strain sisterhood. And I must say it has been a real joy. I can't tell you how wonderful it's been to talk about the Strain with other women. The only other friends I have that watch the show are men and it is** _ **not**_ **the same (try explaining the subtext of 1.07 to a straight man!). Plus, after we had that row when season 2 premiered, his lordship only lets me talk about the Strain on one day a week! I gave the discs to my sister in the hope that she'd see what I'd seen but all I got from the Philistine was, and I quote, "uggghhhhh don't like it!" after the pilot – can you believe it?! So, thank you ladies - you are all fabulous. Especially you two - you know who you are!**

 **Warnings: More racist and homophobic language.**

Four Nervous Vendors  
Chapter Four

* * *

Fonthill Abbey, Great Britain - October 1823  
Great Western Hall

The "Fonthill Sale" of legend is taking place. Not the secretive sale of the Abbey and its treasures by William Thomas Beckford to John Farquhar, but the very public auction of all those treasures now freely accessible to society at large - or at least that part of society with the money to indulge their love of beautiful things. This time, Farquhar is the vendor and an extremely nervous one at that, whereas Beckford and his friend Alexander, Duke of Hamilton and Brandon are rabidly enthusiastic bidders. By acting as joint bidders, they buy back most of the lots cheaply, but the _Occido Lumen_ sparks a bad-tempered bidding war. Finally, Beckford can't afford to keep pace with the Duke and the _Lumen_ goes to Hamilton. Beckford and Hamilton row and a physical fight breaks out between them. The friendship is irrevocably broken when Beckford threatens to shoot Hamilton there and then and gets arrested. Farquhar is relieved and the exultant Duke of Hamilton heads to London.

* * *

Fet's place, Red Hook, Brooklyn – Present day

'What happened next, Mum?' Dutch asks.

'I returned to your grandmother's home in Maastricht,' Sandra sighs. 'I was bereft, damaged and defeated. Your Dutch family were so kind and understanding that it broke my heart all over again. Bart, your father's brother – the man you knew as "Dad" - was the only one who was a little distant and chilly. Well, maybe your great-great-grandmother Sarah, too. She was warm but quiet, watching from the sidelines until one day she asked me to drop her home.'

* * *

Maastricht 1990  
Sarah de Bakker's sitting room

The old lady gestures for Sandra to take a seat while she, with a degree of effort, makes some coffee. Sandra is too broken and weary to offer much resistance and drops onto an armchair.

Sandra thanks her for the coffee and sniffs it. 'Is it decaff?' she asks.

'No,' says the old lady simply.

'I'd better not, then,' she says, putting the mug down with a sigh.

There's some more silent scrutiny by the elder lady until she points at the locket around Sandra's neck. 'Cornelius gave it to you?' she asks without inflection.

Sandra wordlessly removes the silver locket and offers it back.

The old lady takes it silently and turns it over and over in her wizened fingers. Her nostalgic smile is very young though. She sighs and whispers, ' _De liefde van mijn leven_.'

Sandra translates, 'The love of your life?'

Old Mrs De Bakker nods sadly.

'Corey told me,' the girl says sympathetically. 'It contains a picture of his great-grandfather...'

Another nod.

'…my baby's great-great-grandfather...'

A nod.

'…Johannes de Bakker.'

A shake of the old lady's head. Sandra gasps. She gets up and goes to sit next to Sarah on the sofa, she points to the ornately engraved letter on the front of the case.

'What does the "J" stand for, then?'

The old lady turns and looks the girl full in the face. 'It's not a "J", my dear.'

Sandra snatches it and examines it again. The excessive wear at the bottom of the letter means it could indeed be an "F", an "I", an "L", a "T" or even, with the eye of faith, a "P".

Sandra returns the locket to the other's tender handling and asks breathlessly, 'Who?'

The older lady doesn't answer immediately, but eventually sighs. 'I don't remember his name.'

Sandra doesn't appear to completely believe her but doesn't push it.

The old lady leans back and closes her eyes.

'Pieter's father was a German cavalry officer, running away from you British after the Great War.'

'Someone told Corey he was more German than Jew,' muses Sandra.

'Oh yes, there's hardly any Jewish blood in the boys. I'm only one quarter Jew and Pieter and Gude both married blond Gentiles... Well, poor Pieter didn't get to marry his girl…' her voice tails off and she's silent for a minute before resuming brightly as if the interlude had never happened.

'I was Sarah Israëls, granddaughter of the foremost jeweller in Maastricht, _Opa_ (Grandpa) had married a beautiful, blonde Dutchwoman and so had Pa. I took after Ma and _Oma_ (Grandma). Johannes was actually Jozef Jacobse - small, dark, obviously Jewish and hopelessly in love with his boss' granddaughter, who was half his age.'

'Hopelessly?' asks Sandra.

She nods with a laugh. 'He and every man in the city. I was about your age and, believe it or not, just as blonde and beautiful.'

'I _do_ believe it,' says the girl earnestly, making the old lady chuckle. 'Did your lover know your name? Know you were a Jew?'

'Of course,' smiles Sarah and points to the first line of engraving on the reverse of the locket. She stares into the distance, as if reciting from memory. ' _Niet alle Duitsers zijn Nazis_. Not all Germans are Nazis,' she says. 'I had good cause to try to remember that – in the occupation of the second war.'

The girl puts a comforting hand on the old lady's arm. 'Corey told me about that too. I'm so sorry.'

'My hussar wasn't like those Nazi wolves.' She sighs again. 'He was sweet and gentle and generous. He was scared of me at first, and I of him. Such blue, _blue_ eyes. So very handsome. Brave and noble yet burdened by self-doubt. A beautiful man with a beautiful heart.'

Sandra releases a sigh of pent up fear. Perhaps, this description finally disqualifies someone who had been plaguing her nightmares.

'You still love him very much,' Sandra says and pauses for a moment. 'But why did he leave you, alone and pregnant?'

'He had to,' she explains. 'He was being hunted by the British Expeditionary Force enforcing the German retreat. He had to run for his life. He never knew that I was carrying his son because _I_ didn't know then. The evening before he had to take off, he'd given me his photograph from his pay book. I was going to get one taken of me - for him to keep - but he had to flee and I never saw him again. I assumed that he'd been caught and killed. I had my grandfather make this locket and I put the picture inside and welded it shut forever. Jozef caught me doing it and I broke down and told him everything – the baby, the whole story. He offered to marry me and I had no choice but to accept. It was not as easy to be a single mother then, as it is now.'

Sandra snorts as if she doesn't think her future will be all that simple.

'My husband was a good man and I came to love him,' the old lady continues. 'It was a different kind of love, of course.' Her thoughts suddenly jump track. 'Has Bart proposed yet?'

'What?' Sandra is shocked.

The elder lady pats her knee. 'He will, my dear, if I have to kick him up the _ezel_ myself. Poor boy, he fell in love with you the same day his brother did. You must not tell him, or anyone else, this tale, by the way. No one else alive knows the truth and their Jewishness is part of their identities. It would destroy them to hear this.'

Sandra leans back to take in this new information while the other lady continues her story.

'When Pieter was born, at the end of Summer '19, we agonised over whether to have him circumcised. We both identified as ethnically Jewish but neither of us were active in the religious or civic Jewish community. Jozef felt it was an important event to give our son a sense of belonging but I didn't want my perfect little boy to be mutilated. We were both aware of anti-Semitic feeling rising in the Netherlands and her powerful, but temporarily crushed, neighbour, Germany. Pieter was obviously blond and blue-eyed even at eight days old and I put my foot down. Jozef was powerless to resist his young and beautiful wife,' she chuckles, 'and, recognising that my Aryan appearance added to the boy's ability to pass as non-Jewish, he changed his name to Johannes de Bakker. In the end, the decisions saved me and our son but not my darling Johannes.'

She pauses for a sip of coffee and Sandra squeezes her hand reassuringly again.

'Over the intervening decades we distanced ourselves from the Jews of the Netherlands and, when the Germans invaded in 1940, we escaped detection and deportation. Johannes was in his fifties and a railway worker in a reserved occupation. They needed the railways manned for efficient transport of Jews to camps. Poor, dear Johannes was nearly destroyed by the guilt. Pieter was twenty and was recruited into the German army. Maastricht is a border town, you see, and Pieter was so impressively Aryan, that it seems they couldn't resist him. My decision was vindicated at his medical and there was no further suspicion of Jewishness over our family. Pieter was sent to France leaving a pregnant fiancée.

'Johannes and I were alone again. I was forty but still, if I might say, a dazzling beauty. As you will be too, I'm sure, my dear. I knew my looks put Johannes and me in danger so I did what I could. I cut my hair, put coal dust under my eyes and I got as fat as I could on the food shortages. But it was not enough. One night, some younger officers got drunk and broke in. Johannes helped me escape but he was killed.

I went straight to the highest ranking (and least offensive) Nazi officer in the city and offered myself to him in exchange for my protection and the execution of Johannes's murderers. I know you think you have done some terrible things in order to survive and protect your baby and I don't need to know what. But now you know that I did, too. And, right or wrong, I'm still alive and so's Pieter and so, through Gude, was Cornelius to save you and his son or daughter. Who knows but that you or my great-great-grandchild will do momentous things one day?' Sandra is now sobbing with sympathy and hormones, but it is a stoic, dry-eyed old Sarah who comforts the girl with a bony hug.

The elderly lady returns the locket to Sandra's palm and closes her own wrinkled hand over the girl's. 'Keep it,' she says. 'And now I think you have something else you want engraved upon it.'

* * *

London - November 1836

An ancient Egyptian mummy is being dissected (or desecrated) by Thomas 'Mummy' Pettigrew, as the entertainment after a society dinner party. Alexander, Duke of Hamilton and Brandon is in attendance. He seems much older than his nearly seventy years of age would suggest. He is enthralled by the mummification process and the ancients' afterlife beliefs as elucidated by Pettigrew.

Afterwards, he accosts the Egyptologist. 'Mr Pettigrew, I have an unusual commission for you, but first you must satisfy me that you are able to create a mummy as expertly as you take one apart.'

'Certainly, your grace, I am the only man in England, nay Europe, with the necessary skills.'

'I want you to mummify me upon my death,' the Duke says without preamble.

Pettigrew doesn't bat an eyelash and only asks, 'Would you like a sarcophagus?'

'Yes! Yes! Everything. I wanted to be entombed like a Pharaoh. If I am spared long enough, I intend to have a pyramid built at Hamilton Palace but the doctors tell me that is unlikely.'

'What a splendid coincidence, sir,' says Pettigrew rubbing his hands. 'I am presently negotiating the purchase of several sarcophagi from Paris. However, the vendors are requesting the most peculiar addendum to the conditions of the sale.'

'Oh?'

'They want someone smuggled across the Channel in one of the sarcophagi.'

'Well, I don't see the problem with that Pettigrew, my good man. I'll send him a ticket for a first class cabin myself.'

'No, sir - you misunderstand - he wants to travel _in a coffin_.'

'Why the devil would he want that?'

Pettigrew shrugs.

'Bloody Frogs! I'll never understand the buggers.' Hamilton waves his hand accommodatingly. 'Oh well, whatever he wants.'

* * *

Docklands, London - September 1837

Half a dozen dodgy-looking men are creeping around a darkened warehouse full of wooden crates. When they encounter a consignment from Paris stamped with the delivery address of His Grace the Duke of Hamilton, they are particularly interested. Two men keep watch for the ineffectual security while the others investigate the huge crate with crowbars. They are obviously practiced and before long they are swearing in awe at a hermetically sealed, beautifully decorated sarcophagus. A grubby switchblade releases the seal. They are about to prise off the massive lid when the slab of rock, weighing about a ton, is catapulted into the air and a figure leaps out. The pale, noseless face and black eyes instantly identify it as _strigoi_. His dapper black tailcoat and top hat suggest that he is a Chosen. His words confirm it. 'Where am I?' he asks with a trace of French accent.

His unwitting liberators gibber inarticulately, looking him up and down in horror. The beast might be sporting a long coat but that's all he's wearing – his doll-smooth, white body is clearly visible. He seizes the nearest thug and brings him right up close to his hideous face.

'Where am I?' the creature repeats. The enormous brute faints and the vampire sighs, extends his stinger and drinks him. The other five scatter but the monster is phenomenally fast and drains all but one who he restrains surprisingly gently.

'I won't hurt you, _monsieur_ ,' he says smoothly, 'if you would but tell me where, in England, I am.'

'London, sir,' blurts the ruffian. 'East end. Newham to be exact, sir.'

'Is Hamilton far?'

The man looks blank.

'Lanarkshire.'

More blankness.

'Scotland?' The _strigoi_ seems almost to have given up hope of any lucidity on the part of his new friend.

'Miles, sir,' says the man, relieved to get a grip on events once more.

'In what direction?'

'Norf, sir. Dun ask me anymore'n that.'

The gentleman vampire releases him and the man farts with relief. The vampire steps away in disgust and then drinks him like his comrades. Then he shrugs and flits away into the night.

* * *

Mansion House, London - January 1838

The Lord Mayor, Sir John Cowan, has called a public session at the Mansion House to address the strange case of the demonic individual who the popular press and penny dreadfuls have dubbed "Spring-heeled Jack". Prior to his civic appearance, he discusses the reports with his aides behind the scenes.

'How do these poor gels describe the villain, then?'

'Well he can leap huge distances, hence the _sobriquet_ , Sir John,' reads one. 'He has smooth, waxen white skin, black iris-less eyes which sometimes glow red …er…shard-like teeth…sharp claws…bald head…gruesome fiendish countenance…no nose…and…er…no…er…' The embarrassed secretary gestures to his pelvic region.

'No what, man?' snaps Sir John.

A second advisor comes to the aid of the self-conscious young man. 'No privates, your worship.'

'What!?'

'But that doesn't seem to matter 'cos he has a massive one in place of a tongue.'

'What? Really? Is that how these innocent serving wenches described it?'

'Regrettably so, sir, but with two prongs on the end.'

'By God! Did they? Well, we can't release that. Servant girls have a bad enough reputation as it is. Here's what we say – everything else is fine, we'll embellish some of the stuff along the lines of "eyes like glowing balls of fire"…he wears white, skin-tight oilskins and a helmet…'

'…and the tongue-phallus?' prods the more forthright assistant.

'He breathes fire – a long purplish flame. Some mundanity and a lot of far-fetched nonsense – that'll give the pressmen something to get their teeth into. I reckon they know all about the real story, anyway. It's probably some young rascal who's been dared to dress up and frighten young women senseless for a wager. Right then, let's get this over with…'

* * *

 **Author's note: I know World War One German pay books didn't have photographs but I couldn't think of another reason why Sarah's hussar might have his own picture on him. That could only have been the act of a monstrously vain individual, which her lover was emphatically NOT. I also had to do something about what to call Sarah Israëls Jacobse De Bakker during her conversation with Sandra. Sandra and Sarah, Sarah and Sandra? What was I thinking? Such a rookie error. Hope it flows OK. Please review this. Please. Please. Please.**


	5. Chapter 5

The Strain: Another Season  
Episode 8

 **Author's note: Greetings from the night shift!**

 **Thank you for the recent increase in favouriting/following activity. It's re-heartened me enough to post these last few chapters. I still crave some guidance in the form of a review though!**

 **I usually add a couple of little musical time anchors in the more modern flashbacks and I missed them out the other night. I've shoehorned them in now.**

Four Nervous Vendors

Chapter Five

* * *

Fet's Place, Red Hook, Brooklyn – Present

The group are still gathered around watching Dutch and Sandra's heart-searching exploration of the past. For mother and daughter no-one else exists. Everyone else except the Goodweathers (father in the lab and son in his room, ostensibly asleep but actually obsessing about his mother to such an extent that he needs to use his salbutamol inhaler) are enthralled with the spectacle. Angel so much so, that he's put his feet up and is munching the remains of the popcorn.

'What _did_ you have engraved on the locket?' asks Dutch, curious despite herself.

'Didn't you ever examine it?' asks Nora.

'Never struck me as important,' shrugs Dutch. 'Mum never mentioned it.'

Sandra opens the back window and calls outside, 'Mr Fitzwilliam.'

'Are you fucking kidding me?' protests Dutch as Reggie Fitzwilliam unfolds out of the FinchCorp limo's driving seat and makes his way round to the kitchen.

'Mr Fitzwilliam works for me now,' announces Sandra as her sole explanation. She holds out her hand to him and says, 'My locket, if you please.'

He obeys with an "I don't have to explain myself to you" look at Dutch and Fet. Sandra gives it to Dutch, who has to use Setrakian's loupe to read out and translate the script.

' _Niet alle Duitser zijn Nazi,_ not all Germans are Nazis; _Niet alle Amerikanen zijn helden,_ not all Americans are heroes; _Niet alle Arabieren zijn terroristen,_ not all Arabs are terrorists. Sorry, I'm a bit rusty,' she says. 'And finally… in English… But all vampires are evil.'

She returns the locket with a dismissive shrug. 'At least, you learnt something. But I still don't understand how you dragged Dad into it, persuaded him to marry you?' Dutch presses.

'Yeah, that's right. I'm still calling him Dad,' she adds defiantly.

'He _was_ your Dad,' agrees Sandra firmly. 'No father ever loved a daughter more than he loved his niece. And I loved _him_ because of it. You were so close, and so alike, you even shut me out sometimes.' She gets a bit misty at the memory but Dutch brings her back.

'Mum?' Dutch prompts again.

'After…after Berlin, he was the only one in his family who kept me at arm's length - who treated me as I felt I deserved. One night, I went to his room hoping he'd shout at me for getting his brother killed. Instead, Sarah was right - he proposed. I accepted of course - it was going to be so much easier to raise a child with a partner, no matter what the old lady thought - but I felt I had to explain some things to him. I looked around the walls at all his geekery - the comics, vampire books and monster videos, and I knew he'd be able to believe. We married. We became the Henkes and then, for safety, almost immediately the Velders'. We settled in London. His family was happy and so were we. He was besotted with you from the first moment you opened your eyes.'

There is silence again. Apart, that is, from the banging, crashing and swearing sounds issuing intermittently from the makeshift laboratory.

Dutch is the first to break it. 'But I was born in New York. What about the phreakers Dad was investigating for NYNEX, before I was born?'

'We lied to you, in order to protect you. I don't have time to explain everything now. But you weren't born in New York. You were born in London. We emigrated when you were only a few weeks old because of the Tunnel. Your father, Corey, died for you - for us. But Bart…your Dad - he _lived_ for you. You were his whole world.'

Sandra smiles sadly again as she remembers…

* * *

London, United Kingdom - 1 December 1990

The Velders' first family home is a pretty shabby affair – small and sparsely furnished. The radio is on while Sandra is nursing baby Cornelia/Dutch and Bart is half watching the news on television, half trying to work on the computer. He keeps being distracted by the maternal cooing and contented baby gurgling. He looks over at his beautiful young insta-family and grins like he can't believe his luck as Vanilla Ice invites them to " _check out the hook while my DJ revolves it... Ice Ice Baby Vanilla Ice Ice Baby Vanilla_ ". Sandra senses his eyes on her and smiles back. When the baby finishes, Sandra puts her to bed and sashays over to Bart. She massages his shoulders and whispers seductively in his ear, 'Six weeks is up tomorrow.' She turns his chair away from the computer desk and straddles his lap. Putting her arms around his neck, she kisses him slowly. By sheer coincidence, the Righteous Brothers are now crooning _Unchained Melody._

'I'm sure one day won't make a difference,' she murmurs, flirtatious. Bart is a little shy and unsure but her persistence pays off. He kisses her experimentally and, encouraged by her response, starts to kiss her throat.

She freezes instantly and pushes away. 'Not there, Bart,' she says coldly. 'You don't want to remind me of the monster.'

Then she catches sight of the news over his shoulder and leaps up screaming.

The television has been showing live coverage of the ceremonial breakthrough of the Channel Tunnel. Now, each side is interviewing hard-hatted dignitaries who have gone underground to witness the momentous event first-hand. The song on the radio has changed again. EMF are singing _Unbelievable._

 _"...The things, you say  
_ _You're unbelievable_

 _Oh!  
_ _(What the?)  
_ _(What the fuck was that?)"_

On the television news, subtitles translate as a French reporter asks a grey-haired gentleman on the continental Europe end what he is most looking forward to about the improved connection to _le Royaume-Uni_. Clad in the smartest day-glo boilersuit ever sewn, Eichhorst replies in flawless French, 'It will make it easier for me to keep in touch _with the whole family_.' He subtly emphasises the last few words and smiles straight down the camera.

 _"You're unbelievable."_

Sandra has a total meltdown. She sets baby Cornelia off screaming and Bart does his bewildered best to calm them both down.

'That's him. He's coming for her. Oh God, oh God, Bart look at him. He knows. He's coming for our baby. We're not safe here anymore.' She claws frantically at her husband and falls to the floor, curled in a sobbing ball.

* * *

Fet's place, Red Hook, Brooklyn – Present

Everyone is staring at Dutch and Sandra with open mouths. Dutch has finally softened her attitude towards her mother and sympathetically takes her hand. Sandra suddenly enfolds her in a hug and she doesn't resist.

Meanwhile, in the lab, Eph has been making the noise of a man ineptly trying to find something without actually searching for it. Now, he flies out of it in high dudgeon and demands, 'Where's the solution I've been testing?'

He pulls up as he runs into this affecting scene. Everyone ignores him.

Dutch pulls away and looks at her mother, still puzzled. 'Why did you go back to England? I don't understand any of it. Why didn't you just let me stay with Nanny and Granddad when I ran away from home? I mean, now I understand why I wasn't allowed to go on the school skiing trips or to France but surely I was safe with my grandparents in Suffolk. Why did you need to force me out of the country?'

'We returned to the UK when you were four and a half. Bart's grandfather Pieter had had a stroke, Great-grandma Sarah had had a fall and his mother Gude begged him to go and visit. I refused because the Channel Tunnel had effectively opened the gate to any vampire to stroll over at will. But Bart had thought of that…'

* * *

Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan – July 1995

Bart and Sandra Henke – now known as Velders – are discussing the possible return to the UK with the radio on in the background. Or rather, Bart is pleading and cajoling while Sandra is digging her heels in because she keeps having visions of her toddler daughter chained like a dog in Eichhorst's feeding dungeon.

" _All you hoes callin' here for my daddy - get off his di..."_

Bart thumps the radio into silence, cutting off The Notorious B.I.G. before he really gets into his explicit stride, because the daughter in question, Cornelia – the future Dutch Velders - runs into the apartment's kitchen giggling. The heart-meltingly cute little girl has long white-blonde hair and is wearing only a pair of Pocahontas knickers in the sweltering heat of a New York summer. She runs up to Bart and announces proudly in a broad Noo Yoik accent, 'Look, Daddy, I've gotten all wet.'

Bart picks her up and says, 'And in Dutch for Daddy?'

Full, ruby lips pout in concentration. ' _Kijk_ , Daddy. _Ik ben helemaal nat_.'

'Good girl,' beams Bart and rewards her with a kiss.

'And in English for Mummy?' mutters Sandra. Poor little Cornelia's tiny brow furrows in confusion.

Bart places the girl carefully on the ground and addresses her mother. 'I see you wince at every " _twenny"_ instead of "twenty",each " _inside of me"_ or _"I hate when that happens_ " and especially every _"gotten"._

'I'd rather hear her speak Wookiee for the rest of her life than put her within reach of that monster,' Sandra says defiantly.

'You know what a Wookiee is?' says Bart, pleased as well as surprised.

'One of those great hairy things from Star Trek,' says Sandra with an airy wave of her hand.

'Close enough,' murmurs Bart pulling his wife to him. She resists for a second, for the look of the thing, before kissing him back. After a while, Bart says, 'This city is no place to raise a child, she has nowhere to run and play and look at this…' He leads her to his computer. '…It's a simple programme to access the passenger manifest of each Eurostar departure. We'll check every day. Do you think this Eichmann guy would use an alias?'

'Eichhorst? God, no,' snorts Sandra. 'Not a chance in hell. And he'd travel first class or nothing… And he'd make sure he travelled at night – always in darkness.'

'So we're looking at winter journeys only then,' says Bart, giving a "case closed" gesture. He pulls up a map of the Norfolk Broads and points at all the water. 'We could live here. The water would protect us and I'd only make day trips back home.'

'Home,' repeats Sandra in a whisper.

There's another bout of tapping and a video news report of the atrocities at Srebrenica appears. 'Your professor said they're attracted to human misery…' adds Bart gravely, '…a Nazi should feel right at home in those camps.'

'That's where he'll be, Bart,' she says looking at him, eyes wide. 'I know it. Maybe we _can_ go home…'

The solemn mood is broken by a little blonde angel running in shouting, 'Mommy, where're my Princess Jasmine pants?'

'I don't know honey but your Princess Jasmine _trousers_ are in the wash.'

'Actually, my love,' Bart says with a cheeky wink. 'I believe the correct term in any English language is harem _pants.'_

* * *

Fet's place, Red Hook, Brooklyn – Present

'How did your husband die?' asks Nora sympathetically. 'Was it Eichhorst?'

Sandra nods curtly and snaps, 'I…I don't want to talk about it.' She's a bit moist around the eyes and tetchy in her sadness.

'Dutch said she took it hard,' Fet tells Nora.

Sandra laughs harshly. 'She got that right. I nearly lost my mind. I'd run out of Henke boys to protect us, so I had to find another way to be strong. And most importantly to keep Cornelia safe. Did Neels say anything about her stepfather? About Fraser Mills?'

'She said you re-married too soon. To a shit-head,' says Fet.

'Oh yes. He was - a total shit-head,' she agrees fervently. 'Cornelia's an excellent bad-guy detector.' She smiles proudly at her daughter.

'She didn't say a shit-head billionaire,' Eph points out.

'He wasn't at the time. He was the sub-editor of a big tabloid newspaper. Back in England, I'd been writing some articles freelance and I asked for a permanent position, preferably overseas. He took me to dinner, leered and postured for an hour or so - then he said he was thinking of moving to DC himself to set up his own paper and he wanted to take me too. This sounded perfect – an entire ocean between the Velders girls and Eichhorst – so I bit his hand off.

'Naturally, I had to sleep with him to seal the deal but I'd do much worse to ensure Cornelia's safety. I _have_ done worse. Surprisingly, it was he who pressed for marriage and, as he was prepared to take on a fiery teenager as stepdaughter, I accepted. I also thought another name change couldn't hurt.

'Of course, the transatlantic move was either wishful thinking on his part or complete bullshit but the new paper was real. And, like I told you this afternoon, I'd discovered how to access mobile phone voicemails…'

'Were you really never caught?' asks Nora.

'No one _ever_ found me out - not even Fraser. Even when people cottoned on to the risks of keeping their default security number, I became really good at guessing their new pass codes.

'I gave Fraser a couple of massive exclusives on celebrity break-ups within the first year and the paper's circulation took off. As he became more successful he got pompous and controlling.'

'Nothing like you then,' mutters Eph.

'One summer holiday,' she continues, ignoring Eph, 'Cornelia's hatred of her stepfather, Fraser, came to a head and she ran away from home. I was frantic, of course, and he was furious. We tracked her to my parents' house and brought her home...' Sandra looks as ashamed and sickened as if it had been her.

'And he spanked me. I was fifteen years old, Mum,' says Dutch angrily. 'Fifteen! He pulled my pants down, put me over his knee and spanked my bare arse! And you left us alone for him to do it.'

'I couldn't watch,' Sandra says - a picture of remorse. 'But I stayed close enough to make sure he didn't do anything else. I still felt every blow myself. I hated him and I hated myself more. I knew then at the first scream that I was going to have him killed.' Everyone gasps at that cold statement but Sandra carries on oblivious. 'It was because of Eichhorst that I needed you out of Europe, because of him that I permitted this abuse and it is _him_ I owe, personally, for each blow you endured, each cry you uttered and each tear you shed. I know you owe him too, Professor, but I'll be the one to pay, be certain of it.'

There is silence except for the _Ping!_ of the microwave as Angel replenishes his popcorn.

'What happened to _you_ , Dutch?' asks Nora with horrified compassion.

'After three…' she says, 'Three…hits, I got over the shock, twisted round, kicked him in the plums and ran. I stayed with Nikki and her family until they came back here, to New York.'

'Finally, Neels was out of Eichhorst's reach and Fraser realised he'd have to make a grand gesture to keep me and my supernatural celebrity sense on the team,' says Sandra. 'He gave me a 49% share in the business, by then called AFM - Alexandra and Fraser Mills, and willed me the rest. When he died, I changed my name, the company's name and moved everything over here. I knew the secrets and lies of everyone in power in the media and politics. I've manipulated so many people, broken up marriages, brought down governments. I built up a fortune to rival Eldritch Palmer's by eavesdropping on city traders and, like him, I knew enough to invest it in silver, gold and other durable commodities. Unlike him, I valued the freedom that anonymity brings. I knew everyone and no one knew me – it's an extraordinarily powerful position to be in. It was a wrench to reveal myself but sacrifices will have to be made now that we're in the end game.'

* * *

Mansion House, London - 1888

Sir James Whitehead, the current Lord Mayor is flicking through the morning papers from around the country and a headline in the Liverpool Echo catches his eye.

'Spring-heeled Jack sighted in Everton,' he reads aloud to his secretary. 'I say, Finsbury, do you recall the "Spring-heeled Jack" scandal in London many years ago?'

'No, sir,' replies Finsbury politely.

'Seems the fellow gradually moved north. He was seen in Northamptonshire in '43, Lincolnshire in '77 and now in poor old Liverpool. Wonder where he's heading?' and he laughs at his own non-joke.

* * *

Hamilton Palace, Hamilton, Lanarkshire, Scotland - 1892  
The lasting resting place of Alexander Hamilton, 10th Duke of Hamilton, 7th Duke of Brandon

Hamilton defied the doctors for fifteen more years but better taste than his has prevailed and, instead of a pyramid, he has had a grand Roman-style mausoleum constructed in the grounds of his ducal palace.

Inside this magnificent mausoleum, his mummified remains lie sealed in the massive Egyptian sarcophagus he bought from Paris. They are accompanied, rumour has it, by the ancient silver book known as the _Occido Lumen_. Hamilton could hardly bear to be parted with the book in life and apparently requested it be entombed with him for all eternity. Thus far, it has only been forty years.

Through the window at the apex of the dome, the night sky is clearly visible. It is pouring with rain but it is not, I repeat, **NOT** , continually and gratuitously flashing with lightning in an attempt to create artificial drama.

The mausoleum interior is eerily silent as Spring-heeled Jack opens the apex window and jumps to the floor. He smiles evilly as he approaches the sarcophagus and easily raises the massive lid. The _Lumen_ is indeed clutched in Hamilton's withered embrace and Jack's eyes glow red as his Master anticipates his imminent triumph.

Jack uses the mummy-Duke's facecloth to lift the _Lumen_ and the Master's voice sounds a rich, bubbling laugh of exultation.

'Mine! The book is _mine_ at last. Now nothing can prevent my assumption of absolute power, complete domin…'

The victory monologue is abruptly curtailed as a silver sword from behind him severs Jack's head from his body.

Hostia, the…woman who advised Gabriel de la Reynie to take himself and the _Occido Lumen_ to Jamaica nearly two hundred years ago, cleans and replaces her blade without ceremony and retrieves the _Lumen._

* * *

 **Author's note: I'm sorry, this is going to have to be another six-chapter episode or it'll be too long and you'll get bored or nod off.**


	6. Chapter 6

The Strain: Another Season  
Episode 8

 **Author's note: Please read and review. You can do it anonymously, you know. Just a teensy, little one? Pretty please, with icing and a cherry and those little sprinkly things? Ah go on. It doesn't have to be a cherry…it can be the dried fruit of your choice. Just let me know what your choice is.**

Four Nervous Vendors  
Chapter Six

* * *

Marseilles France - 1911

In the office of a fine arts auction house, a second, very nervous, vendor sits across from the auctioneer, the closed _Occido Lumen_ on the desk between them.

'Who do you think will bid for this item, Mademoiselle Hostia?' asks the auctioneer, reaching to open the book.

Hostia's hand is cobra-fast as she intercepts his. He flushes a little at the contact. 'Don't look inside, monsieur,' she warns. 'It will possess you.'

He suppresses a derisive snort because, after all, she is very beautiful.

She has learnt the value of wigs by now and sports a stylish brunette number which makes her eyes stand out like blue enamel.

'I believe that everyone who has heard the legends will be interested in the _Lumen,'_ she says, fiddling anxiously with her cuffs.

'And is there anyone in particular that you are hoping will attend the sale?'

Hostia nods. 'My family.'

The auctioneer leans back with a sigh and folds his hands on his stomach. 'You are not talking about your sister and brother and mother are you?'

She shakes her head.

His disappointment is palpable.

* * *

Fet's place, Red Hook, Brooklyn – Present

Eph attempts to regain the group's attention from Dutch and Sandra by repeating, 'Where is the silver serum I was testing? Slightly more important than the secrets of your gossip column…It's a potential cure.'

'Eph,' sighs Nora wearily. 'For the last time, it is _not_ a cure. It is a _slow poison_.'

'Well, doc,' Fet answers, with a degree of accusation, 'when you went off risking everything to attack Palmer, I went after you and I took it with me. You'd scrawled a skull and crossbones all over the label. Thought it might be useful.'

'So it's wherever your pants are?' says Eph.

'Where does Eichhorst keep his victim's clothes, Mum?' Dutch asks Sandra with a wince. She understandably doesn't want to think about her mother chained naked in Eichhorst's lair.

'No idea,' shrugs Sandra. 'They just appeared whenever he wanted me to wear something different.'

'Yughh,' mutters Dutch looking nauseated.

'The guards would've searched my pockets for weapons before they stripped me wouldn't they?' says Fet.

Sandra nods. 'Mr Fitzwilliam, call your man inside Stoneheart, see if he remembers what happened.'

Fitzwilliam pulls out his phone and wanders away into the lab for a little privacy.

When he returns, he announces, 'Ken says he saw the new chief take a bottle through into Eichhorst's apartment. I've also told him to pull all my old team out. There's going to be a backlash for tonight's work and, with respect Ms ffinch-Myles, I don't want them taking the fall for you. Maybe you'd take care of them, let them work for FinchCorp?'

Sandra is distracted. 'Fine, fine,' she says airily. 'Soooo… Eichhorst's got his hands on some silver solution…Eichhorst who's just been assaulted with silver…Eichhorst who has sworn to find a way through my silver armour…' she muses. 'Neels, can you turn on his webcam?'

'I...guess…' says Dutch and opens up her laptop for a quick tappity-tap. It takes seconds but Sandra is bouncing around as excited as a pre-walkies Labrador.

Everyone clusters around the monitor but there's so much shoving and Sandra's elbows seem to be wherever anyone else tries to stand, that Dutch feeds it through to the big screen upstairs and the audience gathers there instead.

Sandra is far too close, and far too eager, as the television displays the view from Eichhorst's living room computer.

* * *

Outskirts of Central Park, Manhattan

The _strigoi_ that used to be Kelly Goodweather is strolling home alone through the slushy nighttime streets, clad only in her blood red evening dress. She watches a pair of smartly-suited city gents inexpertly fighting each other for a catering-sized can of hotdogs from a street vendor's cart. Then she is distracted by a couple hurrying past her deep in intimate conversation. She follows them with a wistful expression before a solitary man crosses her path, tempting her to hunt.

Suddenly a single Feeler, a blind vampire-child, crawls out of a subway entrance and crouches in front of her, clicking excitedly. It is wearing an over-sized hooded parka and would pass for human if not for its stance and insectoid vocalisation.

The child stands up straight and its eyes start to glow red. It speaks to Kelly with the Master's voice.

'Kelly, you were doing so well…'

She bows her head in reverence. 'Mr Eichhorst was in trouble,' she says.

'I know,' says the Master ominously. 'He still is.'

'He called me away.' It's not uttered as an arse-covering excuse, merely a statement of fact.

'You will try again tonight, my child. Your husband has been spotted in Red Hook. Take Lucille under the river and track him down. You will be reunited with your Loved Ones soon.'

* * *

Sotheby's Auction House, York Avenue, Upper East Side, Manhattan - Present

Although it's very late at night, two female executives stroll through the corridors discussing an impending sale.

'Are you nervous, Hilary?'

'Are you joking? I'm terrified, aren't you, Jamila?'

'Of course. I'm just glad I'm not alone. Twelve years I've worked here. I handled the _Guennol Lioness_ personally and led the marketing team on _The Scream_ but the _Occido Lumen_ makes me feel like a green intern.'

'It's special isn't it?' agrees Hilary. 'It's unique and so old. You know, if this goes through, it'll be only the third time it's been sold successfully. Five hundred years and only two other completed sales,' she wonders. 'How did it travel around the world for so long?'

'Stolen, I guess…looted…"borrowed"…and inherited, of course,' says Jamila.

'It was last offered for sale in France over a century ago but there was a plague.'

'Spanish 'flu come early, do you think?' suggests Jamila, a shade too hopefully.

'The way the client told it, it was just like the one in the city at the moment - the one that's all over the news.'

'The client? She can't have been there though, surely.'

Hilary shrugs. 'If that book could talk, it would have some tales to tell,' she muses.

'I'm sure.'

'There's an aura about it, isn't there? Like it understands,' says Hilary.

'You don't really believe the item is cursed, do you?' Jamila asks nervously.

Hilary hesitates. 'No…no,' she says uncertainly. 'That'd be ridiculously superstitious. Every time it shows up though, there are fires, murders, riots, plagues and tales of monsters. Whoever owns this thing attracts bad luck, no question.'

'And yet, the rich and powerful in this city are still tripping over each other to acquire it,' says Jamila.

'It's said that everyone who opens it becomes possessed by desire.'

'Who do you think is going to win it?'

'Eldritch Palmer is very interested and he's the richest man in the country,' Hilary points out.

'Haven't FinchCorp also registered a bidder?'

'None other than Alexandra ffinch-Myles...'

'The Well Dressed Man's not-so-mystery blonde?' says Jamila.

'Uh-huh,' nods Hilary. 'And Finch are going to televise the auction. I have a meeting with them tomorrow. It's going to be quite the event.'

'Thank God it won't be our problem for much longer.'

The last two nervous vendors step into a lift to the car park.


End file.
